


could be, will be, maybe?

by themarvelousmaize



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ep 6 fix-it, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier goes back to Cintra over the years and bonds with Ciri, M/M, Pining, except to say that jaskier is gonna have his found family foreverrrr, it’s glossed over and not important to the story, it’s like one throwaway line so heavy on the implied, you think i’d run out of ways to fix ep 6 but nooooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23686837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarvelousmaize/pseuds/themarvelousmaize
Summary: “Do you want to hold her?”The princess doesn’t really wait for Jaskier’s answer; simply deposits the little babe into his arms, and Jaskier scrambles to hold her right, sneaking a hand to delicately cradle the head. She’s so small, he thinks to himself a little hysterically, and then, in quick succession, Geralt is going to love her.Or: the story of how Jaskier visits Cintra over the years, and carves lasting bonds with Pavetta, with Ciri -and finds himself as bound to Geralt as if Destiny herself had twined their fates together.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 94
Kudos: 1942





	could be, will be, maybe?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merthurlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merthurlocked/gifts).



> For merthurlocked, who actually prompted me this, and it sent me down such a glorious path of geraskier and found family. I feel like I’m a broken record, but let me say again how much I love and adore you, and how much I’ve come to value your friendship. You’re incredible dearest, and a most amazing content creator and creative partner. I hope you enjoy this little one-shot my dear <3

Jaskier, at the request of Princess Pavetta, is invited back to Cintra to play at her daughter’s first name day celebration. 

Well - with monarchs, an invitation isn’t so much a request as a _demand_ , so Jaskier shows up donning his finest silk doublet and trousers (a purple and eggshell number, with blue detailing, made for him by the most sought-after tailor in all of Redania), and his trusty lute slung around his shoulder. He’d been surprised by the invitation, and Jaskier might be foolhardy but he isn’t _foolish_ , so he keeps his questions to himself and struts about the Cintran court, singing his best songs. 

He steals frequent glances towards the royal table though, where Pavetta is as resplendent as he remembers, in a turquoise gown. Beside her is a crib made of oak. Jaskier tries not to think about the child that is most certainly asleep in there. The child that belongs to Geralt now. 

Guilt roils his gut at the thought of the Witcher. Jaskier hadn’t told him where he was heading off to when they split up this time. Only that he had business to attend to closer south, while Geralt went up north to Redania. A promise to meet in the middle in Cidaris a fortnight from now. 

The name day celebration is soon over, the festivities remarkably unremarkable - a blessing surely felt by Pavetta and Duny and Calanthe, given the betrothal feast. Jaskier is packing up his lute in its leather sleeve; soon, he’ll be able to take his leave of the Cintran court and go hunt for a room in one of the many taverns in the city. 

“Leaving without saying goodbye?”

Jaskier turns around, eyebrows rising in surprise to see the princess herself standing behind him. He quickly schools his expression into one of perfect pleasantness. “I wouldn’t dare, your Highness,” he replies, which isn’t a lie. “Why I was about to make my way to your table shortly to bid you and your Queen mother goodnight.”

Pavetta tilts her head with a secret smile. “Come along then.”

Again, less of a request than a demand, so Jaskier follows her without protest. He bows somewhat stiffly in front of Calanthe, who only nods her acknowledgement, and less stiffly in front of Duny. Jaskier’s discomfort is pronounced, but temporary, and he’s about to spin on his heel and make a smooth exit, when Pavetta beckons him once more. 

Jaskier tries to protest, “Princess, I really must -”

“Would you like to meet my daughter, Jaskier?” Pavetta cuts in casually. She’s bent over the crib, cooing softly as she scoops up the child in her arms. Jaskier is officially _monstrously_ uncomfortable as he stares into a face that looks so much like Pavetta’s already. There’s a tuft of downy blonde hair on the little girl’s head, and she’s swaddled in a fine blanket with the Cintran crest embroidered in the corner. 

Jaskier swallows, unable to look away. _Geralt’s child, Geralt’s child, Geralt’s child_ pings around in his brain like a useless mantra. “She’s - she’s lovely,” he murmurs, and that’s not a lie either. 

Pavetta smiles at him sunnily. “She is, isn’t she?” she remarks, fond. “Do you want to hold her?”

The princess doesn’t really wait for Jaskier’s answer; simply deposits the little babe into his arms, and Jaskier scrambles to hold her right, sneaking a hand to delicately cradle the head. She’s so _small_ , he thinks to himself a little hysterically, and then, in quick succession, Geralt is going to _love_ her.

“Her name is Cirilla. We’re thinking of calling her Ciri for short,” Pavetta supplies with a murmur, and Jaskier nods, absent-minded, completely captivated by the child in his arms. There’s something big and warm and important swelling up beneath his breast bone. 

“Hello, Ciri,” Jaskier whispers to the little weight in his arms. As if she’s heard him, the girl blinks bright green eyes at him and smiles. And Jaskier suddenly knows, with frightening clarity, what the feeling brewing in his chest is; knows that he’ll be back for the next name day, and the one after that, and every single name day from here on out.

***

When Jaskier spots the Witcher riding in on Roach just outside Cidaris, he can’t resist the smile that blossoms on his face. Oh, how Jaskier’s missed him.

“Fancy meeting you here, Geralt,” he greets teasingly, ignoring his quickening heartbeat as Geralt dismounts his mare in one fluid motion and walks up to him. Gods, it should be unfair for one person to look so stunning. 

Geralt shoots him a wry look. “Hm,” he says. And then, “we agreed to meet here, bard.”

“I’m aware,” Jaskier assures, as he follows Geralt into the city. He hadn’t really thought that the Witcher would fail to show up - Geralt is a man of his word, after all - but Jaskier is still absurdly pleased by the fact. In a decade of friendship (and pining, and yearning, and longing and -) the Witcher has, of his own volition, made plans with Jaskier time and time again when their ambitions and commitments took them on separate paths. 

It’s still special. Jaskier suspects it will never cease to send butterflies fluttering in his stomach. 

“How was Redania?” he asks, after they’ve settled Roach in the stables and found themselves a tavern to spend the night in and share some ale. 

“Good. Slayed a cockatrice.”

“And I don’t suppose you’ll give me much more detail than that?”

Geralt’s mouth actually _curves,_ and it’s such a pretty picture that Jaskier’s throat is _dry_ all of a sudden, and he swallows a mouthful of ale to compensate. “You suppose right,” the Witcher replies and gods help Jaskier, it actually sounds _teasing_. 

The bard huffs, trying to feign frustration and knowing he’s failing horribly because it’s _so good_ to see Geralt - to have Geralt be sitting across from him, _smiling_ and _teasing_ \- and he can’t suppress the grin threatening to overwhelm his face. “You’re impossible.”

“Hm.”

But Geralt’s mouth is still curved, and Jaskier is so pleased he could burst, a feeling he tries to hide behind both sips of ale and bites of food. “So, Witcher,” Jaskier says, downing the last of his ale, “where to next?”

“There’s a basilisk nearby,” Geralt informs him. “We can head out in the morning.”

Jaskier nods enthusiastically. He has about a dozen questions buzzing around in his head - which he proceeds to lob at Geralt. Geralt, incredibly, _humors_ him to Jaskier’s endless delight, and answers most of them, deflecting the most inane ones with grunts or wry looks. 

Later, once they’ve settled in the room they’re renting for the night, Geralt parks himself in the bed closest to the door, as he always does. A wordless proof of the Witcher’s paranoia, and his care for Jaskier, and Jaskier’s cheeks redden a little at the gesture. He tries to distract himself by shrugging out of his doublet and tuning his lute. Geralt, meanwhile, is whetting his steel sword, and they sit like that in companionable silence for a while.

It is - shockingly - _Geralt_ who breaks it. 

“You’ll have to be careful tomorrow,” Geralt murmurs, eyes of molten gold moving from his sword to the bard and burning straight through Jaskier’s soul. “Basilisks are dangerous. If I tell you to run or hide, you do as I say.”

Jaskier swallows heavily. “I’ll do my best, Witcher,” he murmurs, as he thinks Geralt _cares, he cares, he cares_. His heart is a fluttering mess in his chest, and he briefly wonders what the Witcher’s keen sense of smell might be picking up. What does adoration smell like? Respect? Love? 

During more fleeting flights of fancy, Jaskier is convinced Geralt will smell the depth of his affection and figure out the bard is hopelessly in love with him. 

But he hasn’t. 

The bard doesn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed. 

***

The next time Jaskier is in Cintra for Ciri’s name day, he stays at the Cintran court an entire week instead of a few days. Pavetta’s delighted, and she takes the opportunity to show Jaskier the ins and outs of the castle she calls home, Ciri in tow. 

It’s how they find themselves taking a walk in the courtyard one crisp afternoon, Pavetta’s hand on Jaskier’s arm. They’re conversation is easy and free-flowing, and Jaskier makes Pavetta laugh more than once, the sound soft and musical, like wind chimes. 

“She’s getting bigger,” Jaskier remarks, fond. A few steps ahead, two-year-old Ciri is giggling uproariously, chubby legs propelling her towards a tiny bird. 

“She is,” Pavetta agrees. “She misses you when you’re not here, you know? Calls for ‘Jask’ and songs all the time.”

Jaskier feels like he’s melting. “Don’t toy with my heartstrings, Princess,” he warns with no bite. He watches as Ciri, clearly uninterested in standing upright any longer, plops herself firmly down in the courtyard. Her head tilts, and she smiles wide and large when she catches Jaskier’s eye. Jaskier can’t resist smiling back and waggles his fingers in a silly wave. It earns him a delighted giggle. 

Pavetta stops walking, and Jaskier nearly staggers with the suddenness of it. He turns his head to shoot her a concerned look, and his eyebrows furrow when he sees her expression, as solemn and as serious as it was the night of her betrothal. 

“Will you winter with us this year, Jaskier?” Pavetta asks him softly. The grip on his arm tightens ever so slightly. 

“Oh, Princess I -”

“ _Please_ ,” she squeezes his arm again. “I know you must feel like this betrays _him_ ,” and Jaskier flinches openly and _hard_. In their entire acquaintance, Pavetta has never mentioned Geralt, and the Witcher has loomed large and unspoken between them. “But he _chooses_ not to come claim Ciri. _You_ can choose differently. I know you must want to. Ciri cares for you - _I_ care for you,” the admission is spoken softly, but those green eyes remain open and earnest and unblinking, “so choose differently. Please.”

Jaskier is properly silenced for the first time in a long time. There’s a riot of emotions brewing in his chest. He feels pulled on, like a string, caught between love and loyalty, and duty and affection. 

His eyes land on Ciri once more - _Geralt’s_ child, a responsibility the Witcher won’t shirk forever, because Jaskier _knows_ him and he knows how much Geralt will love her once he stops standing in Destiny’s way - before they snap back to Pavetta. Perhaps, just maybe, loyalty here _would_ be to stand watch over the Child Surprise until Geralt is ready to do so.

So Jaskier makes a choice. 

“I’ll winter here, Princess,” he murmurs. 

And prays that when Geralt inevitably finds out, he understands.

***

“So, this is where we - ah - say our goodbyes, Witcher,” Jaskier declares somewhat lamely, as they come across a fork in the road. 

“Hm,” Geralt replies predictably. And then, less predictably, “off to Oxenfurt for the winter?”

“Um -” Jaskier’s mind goes comically blank, he’s so taken off guard. Geralt never, _never_ asks him what his plans for the winter are, and Jaskier realizes somewhat belatedly that he’s always _volunteered_ them. But Geralt asks now because Jaskier hasn’t told him, and that shouldn’t warm his heart the way it does; shouldn’t because he has to think of something to say _quick_ \- 

“Perhaps,” he ends up saying carefully, as Geralt quirks an eyebrow at him. “At least, I’d like to spend the last few weeks of winter there. I _am_ overdue for a lecture at the Academy.”

Jaskier’s technically not lying, but his gut still roils with guilt. 

“That area is usually crawling with drowners in the spring,” Geralt says. “I can be there the first week of the season.”

Jaskier almost gapes. That’s - Geralt is - 

He can feel the tips of his ears growing hot, pleased and so touched by the Witcher’s gesture. “Yes, I’d quite like that,” he murmurs. “I’d really, really like that, Geralt.”

***

Jaskier wears all black at the funeral. 

He has to purchase the outfit at a local clothes shop, instead of getting it special-made, having never owned anything black in his _life_. Bards, even at funerals, don’t typically wear black, although Jaskier is not attending this particular funeral as a bard. 

He watches, stoic and silent, as the priestess speaks a few words about Pavetta and Duny. Then Calanthe speaks a few words. Up ahead, he sees Ciri, face flushed and tear-stained, sitting beside Eist and Jaskier’s heart aches. The little princess had wanted him next to her for the funeral, and he’d had to explain that much as he would love to, he couldn’t. 

Once the funeral ends, Ciri bounds towards him, and Jaskier bends down to catch her in a tight hug. She’s sobbing quietly onto his shoulder, and he soothes her with quiet, loving words; things like, “that’s okay, darling, just let it all out,” and, “you’re so brave, little one,” and, “I’m here with you now.”

“Mother and father are gone,” Ciri hiccups. “I don’t have any parents anymore.”

Jaskier’s heart shatters. “Oh darling, but you have your uncle Eist, and your grandmother. And you have me and -”

_Geralt_. 

He squeezes the four-year-old in his arms more tightly. Over her shoulder, he sees Calanthe approach them, along with Ciri’s governess. 

“Bard, a word,” Calanthe beckons. Jaskier leaves Ciri with her governess and complies, trying to ignore the apprehension building low in his stomach. His shoulders are taut with tension. 

“Queen Calanthe,” he says with a bow. “My condolences to you and your granddaughter.”

Calanthe tips her head. “Ciri is actually what I wanted to discuss with you,” she says. “I know how...close you and Pavetta had become, and I know how fond Ciri is of you. I have no intention of stopping you from continuing to visit her.”

Jaskier frowns, confused. “Thank you, your Highness?”

“On one condition.”

Ah. 

Never let Jaskier forget that Queen Calanthe’s benevolence comes with an agenda. 

“And what would that be, your majesty?”

Calanthe narrows her eyes at him. “You are never to speak of Geralt of Rivia to her ever.”

Jaskier feels ice seep into his bones all at once. Oh, the Queen is very cruel indeed. “Queen Calanthe,” he tries to protest. “I-”

“ _Never_ ,” she cuts him off with a hiss. “She will not know of the Witcher until I am knocking on death’s door or by the gods I will have you hung. Am I understood?”

He bites his lower lip, trying to stave off the scream of injustice bubbling up in his throat. He _won’t_ agree to such terms, he _can’t_ -

“Grandmother,” Jaskier blinks and Ciri is standing _right there_ , blinking huge green eyes at them both. “Can Jaskier sing me to sleep tonight?”

“Well, that’s up to _Jaskier,_ isn’t it, darling?” Calanthe says, threading a surprisingly gentle hand through Ciri’s moonlit hair and Jaskier grits his teeth, finds himself once more at a crossroads. His loyalty to Geralt or Geralt’s Child Surprise. 

“Jaskier please?” Ciri begs then, and Jaskier’s will splinters. He is _weak_ , absolutely weak for this child. 

“Alright,” he says, to Calanthe and Ciri both. Ciri smiles her first smile of the day as she reaches for his hand, and Jaskier links their fingers together. 

But Jaskier feels bold, and boldness makes him foolish, and he’s simmering with righteous anger. Low so only Calanthe can hear him, he says, “I’ll do as you say, your Majesty. But death’s door could be sooner than you think. We are not meant to stand in the way of Destiny.”

Calanthe says nothing and, more incredibly, lets him go. Jaskier tows Ciri away to her rooms, legs shaky but standing tall.

That night, he sings her lullabies of a knight with silver-white hair, with a noble steed and a heart of gold, who is brave and righteous and slays monsters across the Continent. 

***

After the funeral, Jaskier cracks. 

He tries to bring up Ciri to Geralt. Calanthe may have threatened him not to mention Geralt to Ciri, and he’ll abide even though it twists his insides. But the threat certainly didn’t go both ways. 

They’re camped right outside of Lyria, Geralt on the hunt for a banshee. They’ve got a small fire going and Geralt is sitting on a log, polishing his sword. Jaskier takes a breath. 

“Pavetta and Duny died,” he says, because there is no way to ease into this particular conversation. He watches Geralt stiffen, and forces himself to continue. “Perished out at sea.” 

Geralt looks up to meet Jaskier’s gaze, and stops polishing his sword. Those golden eyes are more inscrutable than usual. The Witcher stays quiet for a long time, the silence so thick Jaskier can taste it, heavy and bitter on his tongue. 

Then Geralt turns back to his sword. “And?”

“ _And_?” Jaskier repeats, incredulous. The word is ugly on his tongue. Geralt isn’t this callous, surely Geralt can’t _be_ this callous. Jaskier _knows_ him not to be so. “Geralt, your Child Surprise has been _orphaned_.”

“The child has Calanthe.”

“But she has you too, Geralt. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped your petty fight against Destiny and -”

“She?” Geralt repeats, with furrowed brows, and Jaskier stiffens. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. He slipped up and he’s been _caught_. The Witcher’s jaw is clenched tight and his eyes are narrowed suspiciously, but Jaskier _can’t_ back down. 

So he tilts his chin up bravely, stubbornly. “Yes,” he says, and there’s a tremor in his voice but this is too important. “ _She_. Have you not heard, Geralt? Your Child Surprise is a girl. Her name is Cirilla. People say she looks exactly like her mother -”

“ _Enough_ , Jaskier.”

“ _No_ , Geralt _not_ enough. This is _your_ child and she needs you now. She’s _always_ needed you. Why are you so intent on fighting this?”

“I’m a _Witcher_ ,” Geralt says, spitting out the word like it’s the worst thing one can possibly be, and Jaskier nearly staggers with the force of the self-hatred and loathing in the Witcher’s voice. “Good for nothing but killing monsters until we get killed. We’re not meant for...family, for companionship. I won’t subjugate a child to this life.”

Jaskier’s heart is heavy. Oh, how he yearns to reach out and take Geralt’s hurt away. Jaskier’s hands are fisted so tightly at his sides he feels his nails dig little crescents into his palms. “Geralt, that is - that is _untrue_. You _must_ know that you...that you are _deserving_ of family and companionship. You’re not meant to walk this life alone.”

Geralt closes his eyes briefly. “Just leave it, Jaskier,” he says and he sounds _exhausted,_ utterly _spent_. Jaskier bites his tongue, and for once in his life, decides to comply. 

It isn’t until much later when the fire has died down and they’re both inside their bedrolls that the bard decides to speak once more.

“You know - I’d never leave you Geralt,” Jaskier whispers into the night. He doesn’t know if Geralt is still awake; if he’s even listening. “Not unless you wanted me gone.”

In the morning, they don’t speak of it. Geralt hunts down and kills the banshee. Jaskier watches it all from a reasonably safe distance. He accompanies Geralt to collect his coin, and they part ways once more. 

Jaskier doesn’t see Geralt again for some time. 

Not until the djinn. 

***

There’s a weight lodged in his throat.

And it feels like stone; it’s big and heavy and expanding. And it’s crushing his windpipes, and there’s blood spurting out of his mouth, and _gods_ everything hurts, and Jaskier’s suddenly so sure he is going to _die_. He is about to leave this earth, having never told Geralt exactly how much the Witcher means to him; how much he needs and wants him; how much he _loves_ him.

The thought is somehow more painful than the thing in his throat strangling him from within. 

A burst of hysteria envelopes him, and Jaskier starts to thrash desperately as he scrabbles at his swollen throat, and there are hot tears leaking at the corner of his eyes, and _everything_ hurts and -

“Jaskier! Jaskier wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”

Jaskier’s eyes snap open and he very nearly vaults Ciri off the bed, he sits up so fast, but manages to catch her just in time. She’s staring at him with obvious concern, her hand coming up to brush his cheek softly, and Jaskier belatedly realizes he’s been _crying_. 

“Ciri,” he heaves out with a shuddering breath. “What - how - when did you get here?”

“I heard you scream,” she says, and if Jaskier wasn’t still panting, wasn’t still shivering with the ghost of his nightmare hanging heavily over him, he might have been embarrassed. “Are you okay? What were you dreaming about?”

“It was -” Jaskier gulps, sucking air greedily into his lungs, running shaky fingers through sweat-slicked hair. “A nightmare. About what happened to me with the djinn.”

Ciri tilts her head, concern evident in those big green eyes. “When you lost your voice?” she asks.

“That’s the one, little bird.”

“And the knight took you to the sorceress. And the sorceress saved you,” Ciri continues, like she’s spinning a bedtime story of the things Jaskier’s told her. And Jaskier realizes, with no small amount of affection, that that’s precisely what she’s doing; trying to soothe Jaskier the way _he_ soothes _Ciri_ , when she has nightmares. Nightmares of a ship that leaves port and never comes back. 

“Yes, that’s right, darling,” Jaskier murmurs, and Ciri’s arms loop around his neck in a hug. He feels his heart just about ready to burst for this nine-year-old little girl, who is sharp and inquisitive and fearless and brave, and finds himself thinking for perhaps the thousandth time, about how much Geralt will love her too, when he finally meets her. 

Slowly, Ciri inches back so she can face Jaskier, keeping her arms around his neck. “That was months ago,” she says. 

“So it was.”

“And you’re okay now.”

He can’t resist a smile. “And I’m okay now,” he agrees softly. 

“The djinn is gone. It can’t hurt you.”

“It can’t hurt me.”

Ciri nods, satisfied, and leans back into the hug. Jaskier pulls her tightly to him and squeezes his eyes. Gods, but how he loves this child. This child that belongs to Geralt. Loves her fiercely and all-consumingly; loves her like she’s his _own_. “Do you feel better?”

“I do. Thank you, little bird.”

“Good,” she whispers through a yawn, and Jaskier can feel her sagging with sleep. He’ll have to carry her to her room, and Jaskier finds that he doesn't mind one bit. “I love you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier smiles into moonlit hair. “I love you too, Ciri.”

***

Geralt falls in love with Yennefer. He sleeps with her, on and off, over the years, and though he always keeps her at arm’s length, the looks he gives her and the way he treats her speak plainly of his emotions for the sorceress. 

Jaskier watches and tries not to choke with the envy. He buries his feelings deep inside; tries to convince himself that Geralt still chooses to travel with him and share his coin and his food and his adventures with him; that Geralt still lets Jaskier tend to his wounds and draw him baths. That maybe that’s enough. 

It doesn’t help that Yennefer seems to be clued in on Jaskier’s feelings and enjoys taunting him. Jaskier’s surprised by how easily the sorceress has managed to get under his skin, and he doesn’t bother to hide his displeasure whenever they do meet. He doesn’t trust her. 

But Yennefer is beautiful and powerful and _breathtaking_ \- Jaskier might be sick with jealousy, but he’s not _blind_ \- and suitable to Geralt in every way. She is wild and unyielding and destructive, but she speaks to a part of Geralt that Jaskier knows he will never be able to adequately understand. And Jaskier might have elven blood coursing through his veins, but whatever magic his kin might have possessed withered away long ago. He is neither Witcher nor mage - beings of endurance and grit, forged by the most grueling of magical trials. 

So Jaskier tries to swallow up his bitterness and his envy; it won’t do him any good anyway. Jaskier might pine for Geralt - might yearn to be more than friend and travel companion - but he knows he’ll never leave Geralt. 

He is weak, and he is wanting, and he wants Geralt in whatever capacity Geralt will give him. 

Jaskier convinces himself that that’s enough. He told Geralt once after all, that he would never leave Geralt unless the Witcher wanted him gone. Jaskier meant it. Means it still.

And then the dragon hunt happens. 

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

Jaskier’s never known heartbreak like this. 

***

Nilfgaard overtakes Cintra. 

Jaskier scrambles to get back - thinking only of _Ciri, Ciri, Ciri_ \- and ignores warnings that it’s too dangerous; that he could be caught in the cross-hairs of a battle that has nothing to do with him. He _hopes_ Geralt had enough foresight to go claim his child, but he can’t be sure so he _scrambles_ to Cintra as fast as he can. 

He’s about halfway there when he gets captured. 

“You. You’re the Witcher’s bard,” the mage growls. “You’ve been to Cintra. Tell me everything you know about the princess. Or die.”

Jaskier is both scared and not scared. He is prepared to die. “You may as well kill me now,” he spits out. “I won’t tell you anything.”

The mage’s answering grin is ugly. “Don’t be so sure, bard. I know how to break a person.”

And Jaskier is scared and not scared, and steels himself for the worst. 

The worst, it turns out, is much, much more horrific than he could have ever imagined. 

***

The days blend together. Has Jaskier been here a week? A month? A year? 

He doesn’t know. All he knows is pain. Pain, and protecting Ciri. And Geralt. 

Jaskier doesn’t even flinch when he hears the thrum and static of magic. Tears are pooling in his eyes. Gods, why has the mage not _killed_ him yet? He’s so tired. He just wants it all to stop.

And then, incredibly, it’s not the mage’s voice he hears saying his name. It’s a woman’s voice. A voice he recognizes. 

Jaskier is half out of his mind with pain, he thinks the violet-eyed sorceress in front of him is a hallucination. “Yen...Yennefer?” he slurs. “Are you real?”

He thinks he sees sadness and pain and fury in those violet eyes but why would Yennefer hurt over _him_? “Shh, Jaskier,” she says with a surprisingly gentle voice. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. This fucking _mage_ -”

He feels himself hoisted up delicately, and lets out a quiet whine of protest. A glowing hand immediately settles on his abdomen, and the pain lessens a fraction. Yennefer loops an arm around his waist and Jaskier holds on to her for dear life. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For saving me.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We still need to get you healed,” Yennefer replies. Jaskier thinks he sees her conjure up a portal. “I’m taking you to Geralt.”

Jaskier tries to shake his head but he’s just so _tired._ “Geralt...Geralt doesn’t want me. He hates me.”

“Oh, little bard,” Yennefer whispers, as darkness starts to claim Jaskier once more. “If you only knew how untrue that was.”

***

When Jaskier awakens once more, he’s in a room he doesn’t recognize. 

It’s cold, even with a fire lit in the hearth, and the seemingly endless pile of furs and blankets on his person. There are bandages all around his abdomen, his left bicep, his right thigh, and both ankles. His head is throbbing with a dull headache, and his mouth feels so dry, aching for water.

“You’re awake.”

“ So I am.”

With some difficulty, Jaskier manages to sit up, and locks eyes with one Yennefer of Vengerberg. She looks _haggard_ , hair unkempt, thick bags under her eyes, and makeup streaking down the sides of her face.

She is stunning.

In the armchair next to her - Jaskier’s heart leaps - is a sleeping Ciri, face tear-stained and blotchy and so gloriously _alive_ and _beautiful._

And Jaskier knows without a doubt where he is.

“Some water?” Yennefer whispers. 

Jaskier nods, his eyes not leaving Ciri. “Please.”

Yennefer conjures a glass of water, which Jaskier takes gratefully. “Thank you again. For saving me,” he says, after a glorious sip. “How is she?”

“Half out of her mind with worry, and wouldn’t leave your side,” Yennefer says with a scoff, but it’s fond, admiring even, and Jaskier is sure that the Child Surprise has wormed her way into Yennefer’s heart. 

Good. Yennefer deserves tenderness.

“She finally managed to sleep a few hours ago,” the sorceress continues. “Would you like me to wake her?”

Jaskier shakes his head. The little bird, it seems, has earned some well-deserved rest. “Not yet,” he murmurs. His eyes flicker back to Yennefer. “Am I in -”

“Kaer Morhen,” Yennefer confirms. “You’ve been out for about five days, but you took to the magic-infused healing nicely. Must be the elven blood.”

“Must be.”

A beat of silence. 

“Geralt is here too,” Yennefer says, and Jaskier closes his eyes. He should be impressed, how someone he’s spent the better part of half a decade trading barbs with knows his mind so well. There’s a potential for a formidable friendship somewhere in there, he thinks to himself wryly, and is surprised by how much he _enjoys_ the prospect. “Wouldn’t leave your side either. Not until I forcibly kicked him out so that he might let me work in peace.”

Jaskier’s mouth is dry again. “Really now,” he croaks.

“I told him what you...did. What you endured. For him. For the child.”

“Yennefer -”

“I had to. He needed to understand,” she cuts in. “You have no magic, Jaskier. No mutagens to speak of. And yet, you are the strongest person I know.”

Jaskier gapes. That’s - that’s _admiration_ in the sorceress’s tone. “I - thank you, Yen,” he says awkwardly.

She nods at him, standing up with a swirl of her skirts. “Time to wake Ciri now, I think,” she murmurs and Jaskier blinks at the sudden change of subject; is very nearly about to ask her why when the door opens -

And Geralt walks in. His expression is completely unguarded, the naked relief on his face so palpable it kicks Jaskier’s heart into overdrive. “Jaskier,” he rasps and gods, Jaskier had _missed_ the way that voice wrapped around his name.

The Witcher looks like he’s about to say more, but he’s interrupted by Ciri, who awakens then at the soft touch of Yennefer’s hand. 

“Jaskier!”

The Child Surprise immediately launches herself into Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier winces at the impact, but the pain is nothing compared to the joy he feels in his bones at having her so close again.

“Hello Ciri,” he says in between huffs of laughter. His mind flashes to the first time he uttered the same greeting. Ciri was but a baby then, and here she is now, fourteen and just as wonderful, and finally with Geralt, the way Destiny intended. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” she chants into his collarbone. “I looked - Geralt and I looked _everywhere_ for you.”

“Oh, little bird,” Jaskier says, brushing away the tears collecting in the corners of her big green eyes. “I’m so sorry I worried you. I was on my way back to Cintra and - well, it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you’re here and you’re safe,” he takes a deep breath, “and you’re finally with _Geralt_.” 

His eyes meet molten gold for a moment, before Jaskier turns his focus back on the child. Ciri’s head is cocked to the side. “And finally with _you_ ,” she says. And then more softly, “Why did you never tell me about Geralt?”

Ah. The question he’s dreaded. He briefly wonders how Ciri and Geralt found out he knew them both before he realizes that it really doesn’t matter. What matters is that they know and they’re together and Jaskier no longer has a terrible secret hanging over his head. 

And Jaskier wants no more secrets. So he chooses to be honest. “I wanted to. Believe me, Ciri, there is nothing I’ve wanted more than for you and Geralt to be together,” he says, and he thinks he sees Geralt shift guiltily out of the corner of his eye. “But your grandmother, she - she didn’t want you to know. And I couldn’t go against her. Not if that meant never being able to see you again.”

Ciri’s eyes soften. “I understand. I would’ve been devastated if you weren’t in my life anymore. And Geralt and I are together now. Forevermore.”

“That’s right, darling,” Jaskier says. “Forevermore.” And gods, that sounds absolutely lovely.

Geralt clears his throat then, and moves to stand behind Ciri, a hand on her shoulder. “Ciri. I need to speak with Jaskier alone now.”

Ciri turns her head towards Geralt, and shoots him what Jaskier can only describe as a knowing look. “Alright,” she agrees easily enough. She hugs Jaskier one more time, dropping a kiss on his cheek.

Jaskier thinks he hears Ciri whisper, “ _apologize_ ,” to Geralt, and Yennefer snickers softly under her breath as she follows the Child Surprise out of the room. 

Leaving Geralt and Jaskier well and truly alone. 

***

As soon as Yennefer and Ciri take their leave, the room fills with tension. It’s so thick Jaskier thinks he could cut through it with a knife, and he knots his fingers nervously over the bedspread. 

Geralt meanwhile, scoots the armchair Ciri was sleeping in closer to Jaskier’s bed and takes a seat. His eyes are very yellow, very clear, and oddly vulnerable, as they roam over every inch of Jaskier’s body.

Jaskier feels himself flush at the scrutiny, and also very brave. “I’m fine, Geralt,” he assures quietly. He watches, fascinated, as a shudder runs through the Witcher’s body.

“I know,” Geralt rumbles. “But you weren’t. For a long time. Jaskier, what you went through -” the Witcher is gritting his teeth, his fist clenched uselessly at his side, like he wants to touch Jaskier but can’t. 

“I’d do it again.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt exhales sharply, like the thought physically hurts him. “Why?”

“You know why, Geralt. I love Ciri,” Jaskier says simply. And then, because he’s still feeling ridiculously brave, “and I love you. I would’ve died before doing anything that would have brought you both harm.”

Geralt’s eyes are earnest and so clear; filled with so much genuine, unhidden pain it tugs at Jaskier’s heartstrings. “You almost did,” he chokes out. 

Jaskier’s eyes are soft as he looks at the Witcher; he desperately wants to wipe the hurt on Geralt’s handsome face away; soothe it with a gentle touch. But Geralt’s sitting just out of arm’s reach, and so Jaskier falls back on his words. Tries to find the right ones. “I was ready,” he whispers. “Geralt, I - I know that when we spoke last -”

Geralt’s expression _crumples_ and Jaskier cuts himself off mid-sentence, horrified. “What I said,” the Witcher begins, the words spit out like they are poison in his mouth, “I didn’t mean it. I wish I could take it back. Jaskier, I - you -” Jaskier’s eyes are filling with tears as he watches his Witcher struggle with words and _persist_ , “You are... _everything._ You care for me - you looked after my _child_.You look at me and you’re not afraid. I can be - I can be... _myself_ with you and you don’t run away. Except -” Geralt’s jaw clenches and Jaskier’s heart is beating so loudly he’s sure it’s reverberating across the entire fucking _room_. “Except I went too far. And I’m sorry,” Geralt says, low and gravelly and _broken_. “Forgive me. Please?”

“Oh, _Geralt,_ ” Jaskier’s voice breaks. He’s never heard the Witcher _speak_ so much; never seen Geralt look at him the way he’s looking at him now - like something dear and precious and irreplaceable. “Of course I - well, you wouldn’t say such things to me ever again, would you?”

“Never again.”

“Then, of _course_ I forgive you. You must have known that I would.”

The Witcher leans forward slowly and Jaskier holds his breath, eyes wide and unblinking, as Geralt’s huge hand comes up to delicately cup his jaw. “Jaskier,” he murmurs and Jaskier’s name sounds _so sweet_ on the Witcher’s tongue. “You said that you love me.”

It’s a statement, but Jaskier hears the question, the brief note of disbelieving wonder in Geralt’s voice. He leans into Geralt’s touch. “I do.”

“I...feel the same way for you,” it’s a whispered confession that sends Jaskier’s heart into overdrive. 

“What - what about Yennefer?” he manages, even as his heart leaps into his throat. 

“Yennefer will always be important to me,” Geralt admits. “And she’ll be a part of me...probably forever. But she’s not the person I’m in love with. Every day of this past year, the person I missed was _you_.” 

Feeling braver and braver by the second, Jaskier fists a hand into Geralt’s medallion and tugs. “Kiss me. Kiss me now, Witcher, or Melitele help me -”

He never gets to finish that sentence. Because Geralt, blessedly, blissfully complies, touching his lips to Jaskier’s in a kiss that is tender and sweet and so incredibly full of promise. 

Jaskier returns the kiss with marked enthusiasm, and sees starlight burst beneath his lids. 

***

Jaskier’s body heals in time. 

And he finds a new normal at Kaer Morhen.

A new normal where he has Ciri, who still lets him play with her hair and sing her lullabies and whisper her soft stories when she has nightmares. A new normal where his relationship with Yennefer loses its hardened edge, and the teasing now is harmless and affectionate, instead of barbed with thorns. 

A new normal where he loves Geralt, and Geralt - incredibly, unbelievably - loves him back. Where Jaskier gets to wake up to Geralt beside him every morning; where they share breathless kisses and engage in lovemaking that is equal parts tender and fierce and full of flame. 

Jaskier takes stock of his new life, where he has more songs bubbling in his throat than he’s ever had, where Ciri is with Geralt at last and will grow up to be an utterly magnificent swordmaster and sorceress, where he is able to share his life with the people nearest and dearest to him. 

And thinks at last, he knows what true happiness really is. 

**Author's Note:**

> And they lived happily ever after forever and always, the end! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr: marvelousmaize


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